


The promises one keeps

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Kidlock, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-17 11:34:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The promises one keeps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aeowenwrites (sherlockcrush)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aeowenwrites+%28sherlockcrush%29).



> Beta: the masterful wellingtongoose. The wonderful stardust_made was so kind as to advise me on certain aspects of the fic. I can’t thank them both enough for their help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course

_The slight click of the lock slipping back in place rouses him from his light sleep. He waits, lying in the darkness of heavy curtains drawn against a moonless night. The house is old, his room is large, and his hearing is sharp so the intruder is bound to give himself away. Silently, Mycroft shifts to the side in his small childhood bed to create space for another body, his arm reaching out and up to lift the top sheet. Though he’s cocked his ears they can’t detect the soft padding of footfalls. For a moment he’s confused, deliberating whether he didn’t_ dream _hearing the door close._

 __These dreams he’s made of.

_He’s already lowering his arm again, biting back the sigh of disappointment when a faint stirring of the air next to the bed announces his brother has, indeed, surreptitiously invaded his room. Apparently Sherlock managed to cross the wide expanse of creaking floorboards without a sound, thanks to the guidance of the map created in his mind through years of secretive stealing across this same floor._

_The mattress barely dips under Sherlock’s weight as he slips in beside Mycroft, the sharp bone of his hip ghosting past Mycroft’s flank. Once he’s settled himself, his head nudging against the pillow in search of a comfortable position, Mycroft lets the sheet drop. The heavy weight of the blankets covers them both._

_The chill from Sherlock’s body permeates the bedclothes, lowering the pleasant temperature that prevailed in the bed prior to his invasion. Quietly, Mycroft shivers, a quick furtive palpitation undulating along his spine.  
They lie, breathing side by side in the black of the night, not touching. Not yet. _

_It’s almost a shock when Sherlock’s voice rumbles close to his ear: “Aren’t you going to hold me? I’m bloody cold, you know.”_

***

The slice of sponge cake stares up at him from its Meissen plate, its crumbly moistness and sweet smell begging him to partake of the pleasure of eating it. Mycroft has just cut off a piece with his fork when Nanny hastens into the conservatory where he’s nestled himself with his treat among the palm plants. 

“Mycroft, come! They’ve arrived. I saw the car rolling up the drive.” 

She speeds away again, remarkably fast for a woman her age, and Mycroft quickly polishes off his bite of cake, pushes it against his palate, closes his eyes in brief enjoyment at the rich taste exploding in his mouth, and then he hurries after her.

Nanny has already thrown open the front door. Cook is still puffing from her journey up the servant stairs, wiping her hands on her apron. The three of them spill onto the terrace in time to see Daddy help Mummy step out of the car. In her arms she cradles a tight wadding of white blankets. Once she’s standing she lifts her head to smile at Mycroft from underneath the dark-blue beret that is wedged tightly on her blonde hair, clasping the bundle even closer against her bosom. Daddy throws a supporting arm around her waist and helps her to navigate the flight of broad steps that leads up to the terrace. 

His father’s grin, when he looks up at them, rips through the dank bulk of clouds that have been swallowing the light of the windswept wintry day. A bright shard of sunlight glares through the gaps to set fire to the eddying mass of auburn curls on top of his head. 

“Look what we’ve brought you,” he cries, his dark voice booming in triumph. “Your new baby brother, Mycroft. You must promise me you’ll love him, always.”

***

_His brother’s head is the heaviest part of him. Well, it’s the heaviest part of any human being but most of all of Sherlock because of all the thoughts swanning there. In comparison the rest of Sherlock is so ethereally light. The bones and tendons of his hand for example, Mycroft scarcely feels the weight of them against his ribs as he presses the long fingers against his breastbone in a silent entreaty to commence flicking open the buttons of his pyjama jacket._

_A strangled sound – partway between a sigh and a sob – shakes up from his throat as the first button is worked out of its hole._

_Mycroft twists his head and buries his nose into the downy curls, which he loves for their silky smoothness as well as their colouring, black and inky as the night surrounding them. He can’t see them now; only luxuriate in their soft texture caressing his face. They muffle his quiet gasp as fingertips start charting a hesitant trail through the coarser whorls of hair covering his chest. He brings up his hand to tug at the strands, anchoring himself unto them briefly, hovering high on his shelf of self-complacency before stepping forward and spiralling down the heady slope of his brother’s body to the secret spot that’s theirs and theirs alone, to mingle and celebrate and lose and find each other in total abandon._

***

His baby brother is so _tiny_. Mycroft sits on the sofa in the yellow drawing room with his arms locked around the swaddle of woolly blankets, looking down on the small creature on his lap. Next to him Mummy is cooing to Sherlock and Daddy leans over the three of them, bracing himself with his hands on the sofa’s back. He nuzzles Mummy’s hair until she laughs and tells him to back off, swiping a delicate hand at him.

The child doesn’t react to any of this. It lies quiet in its fuzzy cage, gazing up at Mycroft with its sharp eyes, the colour of the stormy clouds outside. Then Mummy’s hand – the one with the big emerald ring Daddy presented her with for Sherlock’s birth – edges closer and the irises take on a glasz hue, the grey swirling with bright splotches of green and blue. The eyes lock themselves into Mycroft’s and it feels as if an all-knowing creature is observing him, even though he realises this isn’t possible. Babies can’t focus properly yet, all Sherlock’s eyes can detect is light and movement. Mycroft has read so in the book Mummy and he have been going through together when Sherlock was still inside her belly that had been as big and round as a giant ball. 

“He just knows we’re here, doesn’t he?” Daddy asks and he sweeps Sherlock from Mycroft’s lap, high into the air. 

“Oh Siger, be careful! You’ll hurt him,” Mummy and Nanny cry in unison but Daddy tells them not to make a fuss and he wiggles the small cocoon until two minute fists break free and wave to and fro with awkward jerky movements. A gurgling sound rises from the tiny throat and Sherlock’s lips split wide into what Mycroft would swear to be a grin if Sherlock were not just two days old.

“Look Valerie, look my love, our youngest is already smiling at me,” his father calls out. 

“Of course not, you silly man,” Mummy chides him but she is actually smiling herself and her arm snakes up to brush past the edge of Daddy’s jacket.

“May I hold him again, Mummy?” Mycroft can’t help asking. He wants to look into those changeling eyes some more, and brush his fingers over the incredibly soft dark hairs that cover his baby brother’s scalp.

“Later,” Mummy promises. “Sherlock is hungry now. I’m going up to feed him and then we’ll both rest. You may help Nanny bathe him when we’re awake again.”

***

 _Sharp teeth graze Mycroft’s nipple. They bite down on the erect little nub of flesh,_ hard _. Mycroft whimpers, his hand clutching Sherlock’s bony waist. The lanky body is still horridly cold against his._

_“You should have worn your dressing gown at least.”_

_Sherlock just shrugs his shoulders and huddles closer into Mycroft’s arms._

***

“Here he is, Mycroft. Remember the water will turn his skin slippery; make sure you hold onto him at all times so he won’t fall.”

Nanny eases Sherlock into the bath where Mycroft is already sitting, shivering a little because the water doesn’t reach any higher than halfway up to his hips. His brother’s skin is indeed slick in his hands as he tries to keep the small torso aloft. Sherlock thumps at Mycroft’s arms with his tiny fists. The crease on his face is one of extreme indignation at Mycroft’s efforts to keep him wedged safely on his bum. Two weeks ago Sherlock pushed himself into a seating position for the first time and Mummy complains he’s refused to lie down ever since. Sherlock’s struggling conveys quite clearly he’s of the opinion no help is needed for him to stay seated.

“Don’t let go of him, Mycroft,” warns Nanny.

She pushes a yellow bath duck into Sherlock’s fists and lowers herself onto her knees next to the tub to start sluicing the water over Sherlock with the aid of a light-blue plastic cup. Sherlock eyes the duck with distaste and raises his tiny arm to throw it at Mycroft. 

“Don’t you want it?” Nanny asks and she hands Sherlock the duck once more to have it flung away again with more force.

Mycroft chortles. “It appears he doesn’t take to bath toys.”

“It does indeed,” sighs Nanny. “Well, that explains the array of cuddly animals around his cot every morning. Hold him, Mycroft, I’m going to wash his hair. You don’t like that, now do you, Sherlock?”

That Sherlock does, indeed, not like having his hair washed is proven quite convincingly during the next few moments. An eel in a tiny bucket would be hard pushed to imitate the convoluted writhing Sherlock subjects his body to, managing to open his mouth at the same time and use all the air in his lungs to produce an eardrum-shattering screeching that sounds as if a police car with its siren on at full blast has ended up in the bathroom. 

“Oh Sherlock, you little exaggerator,” Nanny chuckles. “Stop making such a racket. You would think I was trying to murder you. Here, we’re already done, you silly.”

Sherlock is still screaming with his eyes scrunched shut and angry fists pounding the empty air. Keeping him close Mycroft slides down along the bottom of the tub until he’s lying flat on his back in the tepid water and settles Sherlock on the flat of his stomach. His brother quiets down, head lifted high and eyes blinking into Mycroft’s until he rests his head against Mycroft’s clavicle. The whole of his small compact body ripples with a sigh and he closes his eyes in sleep.

“There,” Nanny says, smiling down on them. She ruffles Mycroft’s hair and reaches for the tap. “Shall I give you a little extra water, Mycroft? A little warmer perhaps?”

“Yes please, Nanny.”

“Remember to flush some water over him every now and then so he won’t get cold, darling. I’ll go and fetch us our tea.”

Mycroft remains in the bath with his little brother resting on his chest. He brings his nose close to the slick wet strands draped across Sherlock’s scalp and sniffs attentively. Beneath the clinging aroma of the shampoo he detects the sweet scent of Sherlock himself.

Together they lie perfectly still.

The next minute the air above them is filled with a faintly acrid smell and Mycroft feels a sudden gush of warm liquid blooming around his navel. Sherlock has wet himself. 

Mycroft wrinkles his nose in amused disgust. That moment Sherlock opens his eyes to look up at Mycroft. The grin on his face is positively impish. 

***

 _He_ must see _. Letting go of Sherlock for a moment Mycroft reaches for the switch of the lamp on his bedside table. The sudden shock of the light blinds him, temporarily. Sherlock raises his head, his lips slack and wet, white teeth blinking up at Mycroft._

_A hot flash of need jolts Mycroft in the stomach, pools at the base of his spine._

_“Come here,” he growls and grasps Sherlock to kiss him, to bruise and ravish his mouth. That marvellous mouth._ Mycroft _’s mouth._

***

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft pretends to continue reading, actually flicking a page of his book. He’s drowsy and lazy in his wicker chair, enjoying the droning of the bees in the hot still air of the summer afternoon. Wafts of perfume coaxed by the sun from the rose bushes behind his back tickle his nose pleasantly. In his mouth the refined taste of Cook’s excellent strawberry tartlets lingers, together with a faint feeling of regret he gobbled them up so quickly. He should have made them last longer. He will next time.

“Mycroft?”

The noise becomes more insistent _and_ louder. Clearly his strategy of appearing to be absorbed in his book has lost its usefulness as a defence mechanism against his brother’s continuous demands for entertainment from his elder sibling. The tactic worked beautifully until last week, Sherlock watching in awe for a few moments before deciding to amble off and start doing… whatever it is a three-year-old does when left to his own resources.

“Mycroft!” The question has morphed into an ultimatum for attention. Carefully administering his most disgruntled frown to his face Mycroft lowers the book.

“Yes!” he snaps and is confronted by one of Sherlock’s blinding smiles, the ones he produces so easily to charm any of them into resignation with his sometimes frankly outrageous acts of behaviour.

“Look what I found, Mycroft,” and the next second a fat glistening earthworm is dangling in front of Mycroft’s nose, wriggling in its useless attempts to free itself from the sharp guttersnipe grasp on its body.

“How interesting,” Mycroft manages to drawl, resolutely forcing the strawberry tartlets back into his stomach.

“Not really,” Sherlock answers, discarding the worm and wiping his hands on the knee of Mycroft’s light camel trousers. He uses the knee to clamber onto Mycroft’s lap next, soiling his favourite pair of slacks even further.

“Now read to me,” he commands.

“I don’t know whether you’ll find this entertaining, Sherlock. Why don’t you run up to the nursery and fetch yourself one of your Winnie the Pooh-books if you want me to read to you.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s mouth curls in disdain. “Nanny and Mummy insisting on reading me that drivel is bad enough. I _hate_ Winnie the Pooh. I want to hear what you are reading. Tell me.”

“I don’t think you’ll like the story, Sherlock. It’s the _Odyssey_. A very old Greek poem about an extremely clever man who was lost at sea for ten years because the gods didn’t want him to return to his home. I’m at the part where the hero has to steer his ship between the monster Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis. It’s not very appropriate…”

“Sounds like fun,” interrupts Sherlock with a wave of his small hand. “Go on with it then.”

***

_Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed as Mycroft’s lips dip at the dimple between his clavicles, soaring above them in the suspended stillness of a falcon stalking its prey, contemplating their best assault on the long smooth column of Sherlock’s throat. Their bodies shift between the sheets, gliding past each other in the harmony that suits them without effort; it’s a part of them, as it has been – always._

_Mycroft lowers his hand to palm his brother’s arousal, grateful to find its heavy insistence waiting for him, drawing it close against his thigh._

***

A spiky stiff object pokes him in the side. Groggily, Mycroft opens his eyes to darkness absolute, blinking rapidly several times. He decides he must have been dreaming and lets his eyelids fall closed to resume sleeping when he’s jabbed again, a little higher. Out of the blackness comes his brother’s voice: “Move over, Mycroft, you’re taking up the whole bed.”

Mycroft bolts upright.

“Sherlock,” he cries. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you in your bed?”

“I can’t sleep in my own bed. I went over to Mummy and Daddy but they said I’m a big boy now and they won’t have me sleeping in between them anymore.”

Mycroft sits processing the information. Sherlock’s reply does explain the bleary looks his parents exchange at the breakfast table most mornings, over the head of an enthusiastic Sherlock in his chair between them, squirming in anticipation of a new day full off excitement. 

“So you’re coming to me now?” he says.

“Yes, move over, Mycroft. My feet are getting cold.”

“Then you should have worn your slippers.”

“I didn’t dare get them. Nanny always puts them under the bed but there’s a monster living there. He wakes up at night and I can hear it. It growls and scratches with its nails on the floor.”

“Monsters don’t exist, Sherlock.”

“That’s what Nanny tells me, but she can’t know because he only comes out when she isn’t there. She also said you shouldn’t have read me all these inappr… _inappropriate_ stories about gods and monsters. She says you’ve put all kinds of nonsense in my head and I should delete it. So basically it’s your fault I can’t sleep. Move over, Mycroft.

With a sigh Mycroft complies, lying down and lifting the sheet to grant Sherlock access. His brother snuggles up against him immediately, wriggling a pair of stony-cold feet beneath his thigh and pushing his head against Mycroft’s neck, into his face, causing Mycroft to end up with a mouth full of hair.

“Do you have to, Sherlock?” he splutters, but he gets no answer. 

“Sherlock?”

All he hears is the even breathing of the smaller body against his, Sherlock has already fallen asleep. 

Carefully Mycroft shifts on the mattress to find a comfortable position without waking up his brother. He closes his eyes, giving in to the delicious pull of sleep itself. A sharp jolt in his stomach makes him whoop in surprise, the kick in his thigh that follows soon after catches him unawares as well.

Mycroft is a quick learner however. After receiving a dapper blow in the small of his back he realises he made a big mistake in granting his four-year-old sibling access to his bed. 

***

_It’s too much – surely – too much._

_Wordlessly, Sherlock has opened his mouth, offering it to Mycroft to do with as he desires – all of it. Mycroft can’t decide, torn by the delicious conflicting agony between the choice to pay worship or plunder and rampage. Either he can taste the dewy fullness of the rosy bottom lip with languidly lingering contentment or he can kneel high on Sherlock’s chest – pinning his shoulders down to the mattress with his shins to force himself inside the obedient orifice. To conquer it and ravage it and_ use _it until he leaves the mark of his ownership deep inside his brother’s throat with a final massive shove of his hips._

***

The car starts rolling away along the drive. Scooting up the seat, Mycroft turns to cast a last look through the back window at the house and the terrace where Sherlock is standing between Nanny and their – now just Sherlock’s – tutor, Mr Talbot. Mycroft raises his hand in greeting. Both Nanny and Mr Talbot wave back but Sherlock doesn’t let go of their hands, holding onto them with his head bowed, refusing to see his brother depart.

“He’ll come round,” says Daddy, his eyes searching Mycroft’s in the driving mirror. Mummy reaches behind her to pat Mycroft’s hand. 

“You concentrate on enjoying school, Mycroft,” Daddy continues. “I know you will. You need boys your own age around you. Most of them won’t even come close to your level of intellect but that will teach you how to behave around people less fortunate than you are.”

“Oh Siger,” Mummy sighs.

“What,” Daddy asks in mock indignation, lifting his eyebrows and wriggling them at her. “I’m only telling him what to expect in his career. You know I have to endure working with insufferably dull people every day and if I remember correctly you moaned about the fatuousness of Mrs Taunton-Fitzroy in quite explicit terms last week.”

“Yes, well…”

“Please, dear, don’t defend yourself. I love you when you moan…” now Mummy looks scandalised and Daddy goes on: “… especially about the general inadequateness of others.”  
In the mirror he winks at Mycroft.

“You’re going to have a marvellous time, Mycroft,” he promises.

As ever, his father is right. The school is a breath of much-needed fresh air after the confinement the homestead has slowly turned into over the past year, even though he quickly realises none of the teachers are a match for the massive intellect of both his father and his tutor. Mycroft loves participating in school life. He joins the drama club and the debating club and he gets selected for the swimming team. His teachers can’t praise him highly enough and he strikes up an amiable acquaintance with two other boys who are only a little less bright than he is.

Another good thing about the school is that the bed he is allotted in the dorm is his and his alone. Mycroft hasn’t enjoyed such restful sleep in years.

Each new day brims with fresh discoveries and he can hardly spare the hours to write to his parents, Nanny, Mr Talbot and Sherlock. They keep up the correspondence to him on a far more regular basis, informing him about their mundane daily activities, which he suddenly finds hardly interest him anymore. The only one who doesn’t write back is Sherlock, even though Mycroft knows he can write perfectly well, albeit in a rather erratic scrawl. 

Before he knows it the term is over and he is sitting in the car next to Daddy on his way home for the Christmas holiday. 

“So,” Daddy says, “you’re not looking forward to the three weeks of intense boredom awaiting you, I suppose. Mr Talbot suggested he’d introduce you to the intricacies of Chinese chess to help you pass the time. We played a game this week; it should keep you amused for some time.” 

He claps Mycroft on the knee. “It’s good to see you again, my boy. I missed you.”

Mycroft laughs. “I would have missed you, Daddy. If only I would have had the time to spare.”

“I know, my boy. We all realise that. Except for Sherlock, I’m afraid. He’s been sulking ever since you left.”

Everyone is standing on the terrace to welcome him back. Mummy rushes down the steps to hug him. His eyes are at the same height as hers, when he comes home for the next holiday he will probably be taller than she is. The thought is slightly disconcerting.

Once inside he makes the round from one pair of arms to another in front of the huge Christmas tree that’s already towering above them in all its finery, saturating the air with a waft of the forest.

“Where’s Sherlock?” he asks, shaking his fingers surreptitiously behind his back after the manly grip Mr Talbot has subjected them to.

“Ah,” his former tutor drawls. “Your father hasn’t informed you, apparently. Understandable but perhaps not… wise?” 

Daddy guffaws. “Sherlock announced this morning he never wants to see you again,” he informs Mycroft. “We didn’t take him seriously, obviously. I suppose he’s taken off to the attics, or his tree house. Let him simmer and stew. He’ll come round eventually.” He rubs his hands. “Now tea is awaiting us, isn’t it, Cook?”

“In the yellow drawing room of course, Mr Holmes. I made you sponge cake, Mycroft, seeing as how it’s your favourite.”

Mycroft kisses her on her plump cheek to thank her.

It _is_ good to be back again, even without his little brother there to welcome him.

Sherlock doesn’t show himself until the gong for supper clangs through the house. He pops up beside his chair in the family dining room, waiting for Mummy’s permission to seat himself. His swirling eyes observe Mycroft from underneath the curly fringe.

“Hello, Mycroft,” he offers, cautiously.

“Sherlock!” However, Mycroft’s warm reaction deflates and crumbles under his little brother’s sharp cold gaze. “It’s good to see you,” he ends lamely.

Mummy and Daddy maintain a pleasant prattle throughout the meal. Sherlock sits attacking his vegetables as if they’ve done him a personal injury. Mummy admonishes him in soft tones. He doesn’t spare Mycroft a glance during the whole fifty minutes they spend seated together at the table.

Once in bed Mycroft lies in the darkness, waiting. At long last he hears the click of the door handle. Relieved he shuffles over the mattress until he ends up with his back against the wall behind the bed. 

He lifts the blankets and the next thing he feels is Sherlock’s cold feet trying to wedge themselves between his thighs. He parts his legs and shudders at the iciness seeping through his pyjama trousers.

“Sherlock?” he asks tentatively. 

“You left,” comes his brother’s muffled voice. Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat at the strangled wet sound. Sherlock is crying.

“Sherlock… I…” his mind searches for the right phrases in the confused whirlpool Sherlock’s accusation has whipped up inside him. “Surely you understand…”

“I know,” Sherlock sobs. “Mr Talbot explained to me, and Daddy, and Mummy. Everyone explained to me. They told me I would have to get used to it, that we wouldn’t be together forever.”

“No.” What else can Mycroft say? It is, after all, the truth. They’re brothers; they will go and make their separate way in the world. That’s what siblings do.

“You left,” alleges Sherlock again. Suddenly he scurries up on his knees and starts pummelling Mycroft’s shoulders with angry balled fists. “You left me and I hate you.” 

Scrabbling wildly at the bedclothes Sherlock jumps out of the bed. Mycroft grabs for him, but his brother is already across the room, quicker than quicksilver, his hand reaching up for the doorknob and the next second he’s yanked the door open and turns around to scream the words into Mycroft’s face before slamming the door shut behind him.

“I hate you!”

***

_“I love you.”_

_The syllables tumble out of his mouth of their own volition, laying him open, vulnerable and bare. As vulnerable and bare as Sherlock’s lanky thighs, which have fallen open under Mycroft’s touch, the gesture one of surrender, expressing more than mere words ever will._

_Mycroft’s hand drifts over the lean muscle trembling beneath the skin. Down to Sherlock’s knee and back up again, the slow caress coaxing a hitched breathing out of his brother’s throat. His fingertips falter for the briefest of moments as he hears Sherlock’s dark voice murmuring his name._

_“Mycroft.”_

_Then they continue their upward journey along the lithe leg._

***

The spires of Oxford rise high above them as Daddy shows Mycroft around his old – now Mycroft’s – college. Sherlock tags along behind them but even the scowl that lives on his face can’t divulge Mycroft’s pride and joy at his new surroundings. To their exhilaration it turns out Mycroft has actually ended up with a set of rooms in the same staircase where Daddy lived all those years ago. Mycroft smiles at his father and gets clapped on the shoulder.

“Just a few more years and then it will be your turn, Sherlock,” Daddy beams. He’s the only one who manages to endure Sherlock’s permanent war on good manners, simply acting as if the conflict doesn’t exist.

One evening during his second year Mycroft sits nursing his tea in the café he and some of his acquaintances frequent. Their discussion undulates around the likelihood of Margaret Thatcher surviving yet another attack in the House of Commons. One of Mycroft’s friends is just about to raise his hand to stress his statement when the door to the café opens and in he walks.

His name is David, as Mycroft will learn in another hour.

To his dismay Mycroft feels a blush blooming on his chest, creeping up his throat. The next second he’s delighted to discover the flush that has sprung up on David’s cheeks as his glance travels over Mycroft’s form. Their eyes slant sideways simultaneously to swivel back and lock into each other straight after.

The boy seats himself at a nearby table. He orders himself a cup of tea and a Chelsea bun, and reaches into his satchel to produce a volume of what Mycroft discerns to be Winston Churchill’s _Their finest hour_ , a well-thumbed copy of which is currently gracing Mycroft’s bedside table as well.

His friends’ heated discussion rises and falls around him but he’s scarcely aware of their presence as he sits feasting his eyes on the boy’s gracious nape emerging from the folds of the soft blue scarf around his neck, beneath the gentle curve of downy blonde curls. 

At long last his friends take their leave and Mycroft is free to lift himself on legs that feel like they will buckle beneath him any minute as they transport him to the boy who will teach him in another five years that caring _can_ be a disadvantage, most distinctly so.

“Just ignore my little brother. He’s the most insufferable boor,” he warns his lover as he invites him for Christmas at the Holmes manor. After one and a half year he’s certain he’s fonder of David than Mummy and Daddy have ever been of each other so he guesses the time is right to introduce his lover to his family.

“Isn’t that the nature of all one’s siblings?” laughs David.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft answers. “We were very close once. Sometimes I do long for those times to return. He’s been so resentful ever since I left for school.”

“Now you’ve insulted me, telling me you wish for the times you didn’t know me yet.” 

“You know I haven’t.” Mycroft responds. “Please don’t speak lightly of my feelings for you. I wish for nothing better than to have you at my side, constantly.”

“ _Mycroft._ I… forgive me. Christ, you must know I want you. I need you, always. Come here; let me make it up to you.”

And he does, expertly reducing Mycroft to a quivering tangle of limbs, transitioning him to that repelling state of voluntary surrender to primitive sensuousness Mycroft abhors and chases after both.

In another three weeks David stands shaking Mummy’s hand first and Daddy’s next. They welcome him into their family circle with graceful smiles, Daddy fondling the bottle of Laphroaig with appreciation and Mummy declaring herself enchanted with David’s present of a silk paisley shawl in a colour that compliments her violet eyes perfectly (Mycroft advised David on both gifts). Sherlock hangs in the background; the beautifully illustrated edition of the _Gilgamesh_ epos David has presented him with lying on the floor next to his feet. His face as petulant as it is long, he stands measuring David with smouldering eyes. 

“He really is beyond the pale,” David says as Mycroft joins him in the second best guestroom that night. Sherlock’s behaviour towards David has indeed been bordering on plain rude the whole evening.

“Yes,” Mycroft admits. “I suppose steadfast unconcern will be the most viable mode of approach.”

David nods, reaching out to cup the base of Mycroft’s skull and draw him close.

“However, you didn’t come here to discuss the antics of your brother, did you?” he whispers. 

“No.” The syllable wrings itself from Mycroft’s throat. The touch of David’s fingertips on his nape sets a ribbon of molten hot chocolate spooling down his spine, gathering and hardening deep down in his belly, forcing him to roll his hips up against David’s meeting his with the same desperate urgency.

***

_Sherlock’s lips seek his, blindly, his eyes lost in a dark lake of abandon under heavy-lashed lids. Mycroft drinks, deeply, thirstily, until he can feel himself swelling with the filling taste of his brother’s pliable mouth beneath his._

***

One Saturday afternoon Mycroft sits ensconced with his copy of _The Times_ in his favourite chair in his bachelor Belgravia flat. A scrumptious feast is spread out on the table beside him, the tea brewing in the art deco silver pot he loves because it is a gift from David, and the remains of the date and walnut cake Cook has sent him earlier that week waiting next to the stack of cucumber sandwiches he has prepared himself. 

Mycroft has the weekend to himself as David has chosen to accept the invitation to a jaunt with the Percy-Smith’s, an insufferable bunch of people Mycroft attempts to avoid at all costs – sadly he has to deal with both the elder and the younger Percy-Smith on a frequent basis in Whitehall – but David is quite taken with them. 

David’s desire to spend his free time with men and women who Mycroft considers not quite up to their standards rubs Mycroft the wrong way. However, if questioned closely David would doubtlessly admit to some traits of his lover he considered drawbacks – Mycroft himself could think of quite a few; his obsessive jealousy for starters – and yet David accepts them. 

Thus yesterday evening saw Mycroft gritting his teeth and wishing David a very pleasant journey, stressing his acquiescence to David’s choice with a parting kiss that left them both panting for breath and the murmured entreaty to return early Sunday evening so they could at least _end_ the weekend in a satisfactory manner.

The cake is delicious, as he knew it would be. Mycroft smiles while flipping through the paper absentmindedly, savouring the sensations of the moist sweetness making love to his taste buds. He will deny himself and save the last slice for David. 

In the paper he’s reached the Celebration pages. He glances over the print and is about to turn the page when his eye is struck by a particular announcement. 

_The engagement is announced between David Frederick, eldest son of The Hon S.H. and Mrs P.T.M. Warburton, of Westminster, London, and Mary Elizabeth, eldest daughter of Mr J.H.W. and Mrs L.V. Percy-Smith, Royal Tunbridge Wells, Kent._

If anyone would have questioned him on the tendency of his feelings in that particular moment Mycroft wouldn’t have been able to give a truthful reply. Anger, denial, horror, incredulity, pain, regret, shock; a farrago of emotions washes over him and for one bitter moment his sole desire is to weep.

He flings the paper into a corner, as far away as possible, as if it has turned into a venomous snake that might turn to bite him. Next he finds himself in the bathroom, throwing cold water into his face, instructing himself to _calm down_.

It can’t be a misprint so it must be true. Naturally Mycroft doesn’t give credence to ninety per cent of the information that hits the airwaves but he makes an exception for the Celebration announcements, seeing as they serve no ulterior motive but to inform an indifferent world of the unimportant goings-on of dull and self-important people. Rubbing his face forcefully with a towel Mycroft walks over to his desk in the sunny bay window to inspect the stack of letters he deposited there to deal with after finishing his tea ritual.

The thick plain white envelope with the address in typewriter lettering must be the one. He tears it open and does indeed find four closely-written sheets. The sentences are a mad incoherent rush of anguished sentiments; David declaring himself deeply in love with Mycroft, David asking Mycroft for his forgiveness, David begging Mycroft for his understanding, his acceptance. David hasn’t taken his step lightly, has turned the decision over and over in his mind while his lover lay slumbering next to him in blessed oblivion. They’ve never breached the subject but surely Mycroft must have pondered upon the problem as well? How general knowledge of their relationship would hinder them in their career, so far they’ve managed to keep it a secret but it’s bound to come out some day. Even if it didn’t, the fact that they wouldn’t get married would look suspicious; hamper them in their prospects as well. And what glorious scenarios lay awaiting them, only look how fast Mycroft has risen, how many aces he’s already tucked up his sleeve. God forbid David should be the reason Mycroft wouldn’t reach the highest position viable. So he’s made his decision. And he begs Mycroft’s forgiveness. He realises what he’s giving up, or no, he can’t yet…

By now Mycroft is halfway through the letter but he knows enough. 

_The_ coward _. The sheer despicable low_ snivelling _coward._

Mycroft starts ripping up the paper, tearing it into the smallest possible shreds. He dashes to the kitchen and disposes of them in the bin, then he decides that’s too good an end for them and he scoops them out with his bare hands, dirtying his fingers as he stands grabbing into the discarded rubbish. Finally he’s got hold of all the pieces and he walks over to the bathroom again to flush them down the toilet, watching as they get sucked down to float among the human dirt. His knees buckle beneath him and he seeks hold against the cold tiles of the wall, sliding down until he ends seated on the floor.

His breathing, he notices, has become frantic and irregular, rasping in his lungs, his heart is pounding so fast he’s afraid for a moment his ribs might crack at the insistent beating they’re receiving. Beneath his shirt his vest sticks to his sweaty torso. 

He remains sprawled on the tiles for what feels like a very long time. 

The clammy coldness of the vest clinging against his back rouses him at last. He pushes himself upwards and undresses, not caring about the smears his murky hands leave on the clothes as he will throw them away, he never wants to wear them again. He steps into the shower booth and turns the taps, closing his eyes as the scalding hot water starts slushing over him.

After his shower Mycroft dons his dressing gown, fetches the roll of bin bags from the kitchen and starts tidying the flat of the evidence of David’s existence. On top of the discarded clothes ends every present from David, be it a book or a precious silk tie (two of his favourite ties are gifts from his – now former – lover), the teapot, a spare suit of David with some shirts and socks and ties. Mycroft searches his cupboards and bookcases with meticulous care until he’s certain not a memento of David remains to chance upon inadvertently. From the drawer of the night table he retrieves the lubricant and condoms. Every silver photo frame is checked, the photos with David – either in a group or alone – taken out and torn to shreds. Next come the photo albums, page after page filled holiday snapshots, their life in Oxford, Christmas at the Holmes’s – it pains him to tear up the photos in which his family is also on display but it must be done – Christmas at the Warburton’s. Mycroft rips out the pages in an orgy of wild hate; his hands are bleeding with small paper cuts, the drops of blood welling from the cuts adding to his murderous frenzy.

Dusk is descending by the time he’s eliminated all proof David ever was a part of his life. Two bags of waste, that’s all it was. 

Mycroft refuses to look at them. The work has made him feel sweaty again so he takes another shower. He dresses in a comfortable shirt, a pair of casual slacks and loafers and starts throwing clothes and toiletries into a leather duffle bag. After he’s finished he takes his keys from the rack, hitches the handle of the duffle bag onto his shoulder, locks up the flat and takes the lift down to the cellar of the building to dispose of the bin bags.

The bags settle themselves among the discarded waste as if they belong there. Mycroft throws the door to the cellar shut after him and starts the fifteen-minute walk to the garage for his car. The London Saturday evening life flows past him, people laughing, on their way to bars and nightclubs. Blindly Mycroft saunters on amidst the ebb and flow of humanity. He’s a wounded tiger and a wounded tiger slinks back to its lair to burrow itself and lick at its cuts and bruises until they’re healed and he can roam and fight the world once more.

Two hours later he finds Mummy, Daddy, Sherlock and Nanny assembled in the yellow drawing room.

“Mycroft,” Mummy cries as he enters the room, jumping up from the sofa and rushing forwards to throw her arms around his neck. She slows down after making it halfway.

“Oh… what… oh Mycroft,” she stammers. “What happened? Why? Is David hurt or… what is it, darling?”

Suddenly he’s tired, so very, very tired. He lets her lead him to the sofa and sinks into it with limbs that have suddenly turned to rubber.

“Haven’t you read _The Times_ yet?” he asks. “Soon there are such great times to be had.”

Oh god, and now he’s crying, he can feel the tears clinging to his lashes and pushes them back with great determination. He’s not going to weep in front of his family, even though he’d like to, would like to wail with the anger and the shame and the hurt and the betrayal. He wants to howl, howl like a wolf to the moon, the great oblivious moon that doesn’t care one whit about Mycroft Holmes and the bloody shards that are all what remains of his poor broken heart.

Mummy and Nanny are by now giving vent to their feelings of outrage in explicit terms.  
Daddy is the one to pat Mycroft on the hand.

“I’m so sorry, my boy. What a lowly action. Cry now – we don’t mind if you do – have a whiskey and then it’s off to bed with you. Tomorrow we’ll talk, if you’d care to.”

Sherlock hasn’t uttered one word during the whole melee Mycroft’s sudden entrance has caused to erupt in the room. Suddenly, he lifts himself from the sofa, casts a sharp glance at Mycroft and stalks out. Daddy looks after him and shakes his head.

“He’s upset as well,” he says.

Both Mummy and Nanny accompany Mycroft up to his room. Mummy hangs his clothes in the dresser while Nanny lays out the toiletries in his bathroom. Then they kiss him goodnight and leave him to lie awake and stare into the darkness.

No matter how many times he tosses and turns from one side onto the other the longed-for sleep doesn’t come. His body can’t find the comfortable position that will allow him to relax and dwell in nirvana for a few blessed hours. He’s about to roll over again when a faint stirring of the air alerts him to the presence of someone else in the room.

The long-fingered hand that suddenly drops on his shoulder almost makes him shout out in surprise. The fingers squeeze briefly.

“Move over, Mycroft,” Sherlock rumbles close to his ear. Silently Mycroft complies with his brother’s request, turning his back on him. The blankets are lifted and Sherlock slides behind Mycroft, intimately near but not touching before letting the bedclothes drop and dip around them.

A thin arm snakes itself around Mycroft’s waist, on his nape he can feel Sherlock’s moist, warm breath. Their bodies haven’t been this close in years. Still, the contact of their limbs is instantly familiar and Mycroft grabs Sherlock’s hand to twine their fingers and push their locked hands against his chest. 

“I knew he was no good,” Sherlock says. Mycroft can feel his effort to shape the words dispassionately inside his mouth. “I’ve always known it. You ought to be glad he got rid of himself for you.”

Mycroft sighs and shakes his head on the pillow.

“I mean it,” Sherlock protests in a heated tone.

“I understand,” Mycroft murmurs. He clinches his sibling’s fingers briefly to convey his gratitude. “No doubt I will arrive to the same conclusion in due time, if only to comfort my bruised ego and save my self-esteem. But I _did_ love him, Sherlock. I _still do_ even though I’d like nothing better than to strangle him with my bare hands right now. So please, grant me some time. He rooted himself deep in my system; I will need to dig hard to get him out.”

Into the back of Mycroft’s neck Sherlock emits a pained noise, clamping down on it the moment it erupts from his throat. 

“You’d better sleep now,” he says after a while.

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. He closes his eyes. Sherlock’s knee pokes into the back of his thigh. Mycroft whimpers in vague objection, his mind smiling at the recurring memory of nights spent evading Sherlock’s kicks and thumps. The comfortable warmth he remembers so well seeps into the pores of his skin. 

Mycroft sleeps.

***

_Sherlock lifts Mycroft’s hand and presses it down in silent entreaty between his splayed legs, against his perineum and his entrance. Shifting his hips he starts rubbing against the hand, moaning with closed eyes._

***

Upon wakening the next morning Mycroft finds himself alone. He rolls onto his back to discover the other half of the bed is still warm. Sherlock drifting over to comfort him wasn’t just a dream then. Groggily, he reaches for the alarm: eight thirty. He deposits the clock back on the night table.

He has, to his surprise, slept sound. The pain is there, quickening instantly in its nestling place deep in his belly the moment he woke, but at least it hasn’t kept him awake. Mycroft reckons he’s got to thank Sherlock for that. With energy he swings his legs out of bed and aims for the bathroom.

Downstairs he finds his family ensconced at the table in the small breakfast room.

“We decided to wait for you, my dear,” Mummy says as he kisses her. “You’re in luck; Cook spent the whole of yesterday making her cherry, and strawberry and peach jams. I’ve already complimented her on the strawberry, it’s frankly delicious.”

Reaching for his hand she hugs him close. “I wish I could magic your pain away, Mycroft, but I do recognise I can’t. Still, you must understand your father and I will do everything we can to help you.”

Her brave smile increases his anger towards David. The _low coward_ is responsible for her pain as well. “Thank you, Mummy,” he says simply and takes his place at the table, opposite Sherlock who sits with downcast eyes, toying with his toast, not eating, and refusing to acknowledge Mycroft’s presence in the room.

“Well spoken, my dear,” Daddy booms from the other side of the table where he sits sorting the morning post. “Oh, look what’s arrived for us.” 

He plucks a card from an envelope, the creamy-white handmade paper embossed with a wreath of roses in gold foil oozing with ostentatious pretension. “Apparently the Percy-Smith’s are perfectly unaware of the alliance that existed between the bridegroom and our eldest until yesterday.”

At these words Sherlock snorts loudly. Daddy ignores him and continues in a light tone. “Naturally they wish our family to attend; the elder Percy-Smith in particular is the most exasperatingly persistent philistine I’ve ever had to avoid. Have I told you he insisted on waiting in the anteroom for two hours straight three weeks ago, effectively locking me up in my own office? I actually could hear poor Thetis explore all avenues to convince him I wouldn’t return from my supposed meeting any time soon but he refused to pay heed to her.” 

Shuddering in an exaggerated manner, Daddy twists his handsome face and rolls his eyes. Mycroft huffs in amusement, buttering his toast. Mummy reaches for his cup and saucer to pour him his tea. 

“Thank god he had to use the loo which gave me the chance to slip out and make myself scarce.” Daddy stares down at the card he’s still holding, a twitch of distaste around his mouth. Mycroft takes a bite of his toast. The strawberry jam is indeed as good as Mummy purported it to be, and he relishes in the fruity flavour. Deep inside him its sweetness embarks on the long and grinding task of diluting the bitterness of his sorrow.

“Too bad we’ve already planned a few days away from it all, isn’t it dear?” Daddy continues. “Now where was it we were off to exactly?”

“Oh, the Alto Adige, Siger,” Mummy responds. “I loved those mountains so much.”

“The Alto Adige it will be then. From…” checking the card for the date, “say the twentieth to the thirtieth of September? Would that suit you, my darling? I’m afraid that will rule out you joining us, Sherlock. Can’t have you miss fresher’s week at Cambridge.”

“I’d think I’m a little too old by now to go on a holiday with you,” Sherlock replies with a peeved frown on his face. “Besides, holidays are boring.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” Daddy concedes pleasantly. He tosses the card and his napkin onto the table and leverages himself to his feet. “That’s arranged then. Now, I’ll be in my study. Do feel free to disturb me, should any of you wish to speak to me.”

After his talk with Daddy, Mycroft embarks on a walk through the park. Around him the late May day glories in its existence. Mummy’s early roses are already in full bloom, enticing him to lower his nose into them and intoxicate himself on their perfume. The clover field, when he approaches it, vibrates under a thin undulating blanket of busy bees, ceaselessly tumbling down and rearing again, floundering under the heavy load coating their dapper tiny forms. Mycroft decides to give the apiary a wide berth and makes a beeline for the copse of beeches instead. 

Between the temple pillars of the towering tree trunks he stretches his arms far above his head and breathes deeply, gushing the air from his lungs in a series of powerful exhalations. Above him the bright green canopy reigns eternal, impervious to human tears, the leaves stirred solely by a gust of wind, or a great tit flitting from one branch to another. All is quiet, the filtered sunrays dancing on the brown flooring of last year’s leaves. Mycroft stares up through the leaves that are destined to fall and become last year’s leaves in turn. 

He will feel better by then.

On spur of the moment he finds he’d like to go for a swim. The image of the small lake springs up in his mind. Sherlock and he spent many hours there as children, in fact Mycroft taught Sherlock to swim in its waters and he can already feel the cool greenish water lapping against his limbs; perfect on this warm day. Mycroft decides to skip the jaunt back to the house in search of a pair of bathing trunks and a towel. He might as well enjoy his dip, loll lazily on the lake’s grassy bank for a while to let the sun’s warmth dry him and return to the house for a shower and change of clothes, just in time before lunch.

His eyes spot the towel and the bathrobe lying on the bank before he hears the gentle splashing of the water. Sherlock is coursing through the water on his back, eyes closed, languidly cruising the length of the lake with long strokes of his arms. Slowly he raises one lanky limb first, the arm freeing itself from the water that clings to its pale length, running down in glistening rivulets. Higher and higher the arm reaches, yearning to dance in the light air, to touch the sun itself, before inevitably sinking down, into the wet depths from which it must rise again.

Every time Sherlock’s fingers scrape past the shallow bottom near the side of the lake he turns and starts gliding back. The lines carved out of the water by his strokes are perfectly straight.

Mycroft lowers himself on the bench near the weeping willow. The wood of the seat feels hot from the sun. Sherlock continues his exercise as if Mycroft isn’t there. His eyes remain screwed tightly shut and his ears are beneath the water level so he might truly not be aware of Mycroft’s presence. The long white form of his body merges with and parts from the water without apparent effort, as if Sherlock was a water nymph – a male equivalent of Scylla, luxuriating in her beauty, before the jealous Circe poisoned her. 

What a ridiculous thought about his little brother. Mycroft huffs in contemptuous amusement at himself. He closes his eyes briefly against the glare of the sun, enjoying its warmth. Well, no one will deny he may appeal for extenuating circumstances so he decides to be lenient. Besides, relieved from its permanent scowl Sherlock’s face is indeed quite attractive. He has a good bone structure and once he fleshes out a bit more he might even be considered handsome. When will he first introduce _his_ beloved to Mummy and Daddy? 

Sherlock’s right arm is lifted again, shining waxen against the backdrop of green water and blindingly blue sky. Mycroft’s eye travels along the arm on its upward journey, from the bony shoulder past the lean muscles of his biceps on to the elongated line of the forearm, the thin wrist and on to the hand with the nearly translucent, impossibly long fingers. 

As the arm starts on its downward journey Mycroft feels his eyelids sink as well, his head nodding forward. It’s so pleasantly warm and he feels so drowsy. He’ll keep his eyes closed for just a minute.

By the time Mycroft wakes with a sudden start Sherlock is gone and the skin on the nape of his neck – where it lies exposed between the upturned collar of his shirt and his hair – is on fire. 

***

_Mycroft keeps alternating quick little kisses with long stripes he licks across Sherlock’s skin. From the jut of his hipbone, down to the dent of the navel over the concave flesh of Sherlock’s belly, ignoring the quivering penis, flushed dark, and straining against the stark background of smooth cream skin. Mycroft lingers, inhaling deeply, savouring the heady mix of smells, clean skin covered with a thin membrane of salty sweat, the strong spice of Sherlock’s arousal. The slick forefinger of his right hand circles Sherlock’s entrance and Sherlock pushes against the finger, whimpering and writhing on the sheets._

_He writhes so beautifully on Mycroft’s bed. Mycroft presses an ardent kiss to Sherlock’s neck to thank him, just beneath the fringe of damp curls, on the tendon standing out against the pale skin._

_Sherlock swallows, his Adam’s apple rising and falling with the motion. “Mycroft, please.”_

_“What do you want, Sherlock?” Mycroft asks. Tell me.”_

***

That night Sherlock doesn’t visit Mycroft, nor during any of the following nights of Mycroft’s stay. He remains distant and aloof though his behaviour is perfectly pleasant the whole week Mycroft’s self-imposed exile lasts. In the evenings he lends a hand at bridge or plays his violin for them, with his eyes closed in concentration and half-parted lips he’s the quintessential picture of the Byronic genius musician and Daddy teases him he already feels sorry for all the hearts Sherlock’s good looks are going to break at Cambridge. 

The days float by. Mycroft spends hours weeding Mummy’s flowerbeds, the sun beating down on his neck and his back, his knees remonstrating with the unaccustomed position by aching like hell once he’s standing on his legs again. Their old gardener, John, keeps a steadfast vigil at his side, prattling on about all the work that remains doing, the news from the village, urging him to take a rest every now and then.

Cook pampers him with sponge cake, fresh rolls, treacle tart, her scrumptious scones to feast upon with the strawberry jam, hauling the great mass of her flesh up the servant stairs to present him with the latest fruit of her endeavours. At his protests she pulls down his head, presses a wet kiss on his brow and tells him to 'stop kicking a fuss ’cause a grieving man needs to feed himself properly'.

At the end of the week Mycroft feels sufficiently healed to confront the world anew. Despite Cook’s attempts to stuff him he’s lost weight and the long hours of hard work have dulled the sharpest edges of his grief and hardened his muscles. 

“Come stay with me in London some time,” he urges Sherlock as he takes his leave of them all.

“I might,” Sherlock answers, his fingers slipping from Mycroft’s grasp while he speaks, and Mycroft realises he won’t. 

“I would really appreciate it,” he replies nevertheless but Sherlock has already pivoted and started walking away, leaving Mycroft to look after him. 

Back in London he lingers in the portico outside his flat, keys dangling from his hand. Behind the door lies the room where he first learned of David’s treachery. He doesn’t know whether he’s ready to confront the place yet. His decision is made by the click of the lock and key in the other flat that opens onto the entrance hall. Desiring to evade his neighbour he inserts his own key into the lock and rushes into the small hall of his flat.

Once inside he’s relieved to find the surroundings don’t upset him overly much. He makes himself a pot of tea in the old porcelain pot he finds stashed away in the deep recesses of a cupboard and unpacks his bag. Then he starts rearranging the remaining photographs in the living room. Prominently on his desk he situates a picture of Sherlock and him as children. In the photograph Mycroft is gesturing into the distance while Sherlock stares up at him with a look of open admiration on his features. Mycroft picks up another, more recent, family picture in which the look of admiration is replaced by the scowl that appears to have become Sherlock’s hallmark. A pity, for his brother is indeed decidedly handsome. He would be truly beautiful if he could ever be induced to smile.

The day of the wedding is bad. Seated in his office his thoughts wander off of their own accord, constantly, against his wishes. In the end he gives up and takes the afternoon off. 

However that day is the sole one he doesn’t manage to live up to the high standards he sets himself in his work. Ironically, from the time of the break-up his career starts to soar in earnest. His rise is so dazzlingly fast a lesser man would have been overwhelmed with the magnitude of his success. 

It _is_ rather gratifying to have so many people clamouring for his attention for their boring little problems. The only drawback is the nature of those problems – boring and little – but that particular boring little problem Mycroft solves by compounding an extremely concise memo on a boring little problem that has been troubling his Minister, proving to the good man his life needn’t be encumbered further if only he would follow Mycroft’s advice. This results in the Minister frequently bypassing the Head of the Department Mycroft is working for to concur directly with Mycroft. 

During the next three months Mycroft needs to tread as carefully as an acrobat along the thin cord high in the nib of the circus tent, with only his brolly to hold his balance. His Whitehall colleagues look up at him in awe with their heads thrown back into their necks, suspended between their longing to witness his fall and their earnest desire for him to make it to the small platform that will launch him into a different sphere altogether, a galaxy that surpasses their wildest imagination. Mycroft reaches the dais with a flourishing turn of his umbrella and his desk is transferred to a bigger office with a view down to the river and its own little anteroom with his own prim personal assistant.

Every now and then snippets of news of David’s career reach him. He’s rising along the ranks as well, slowly but steadily. One time Mycroft encounters him at the opera, together with his wife. Upon discerning Mycroft David’s handsome face flushes a deep red, and he hops from one well-shod foot onto the other before turning around abruptly and walking away, dragging his wife along.

Not a happy marriage then, Mycroft decides, the thought saddening him for an instant. Does David regret what he gave up for the sake of not offending… _them_? Around him lovers of music are slowly clogging up the foyer. In that moment Mycroft despises each and every one of them. He flees to the hall to find his seat and attempts to empty his mind. The performance has enjoyed rave reviews, the critics outdoing each other in their praise for the high general quality of the cast, the inspiring beauty and exceptional voice of the leading soprano, the originality of the direction and the fine playing of the orchestra.

Mycroft doesn’t hear a note. The whole time the opera lasts (Mozart’s _Le Nozze di Figaro_ , so there is a lot of music to turn a deaf ear to) Mycroft spends debating his sentiments regarding his former lover. He wavers between the sound advice of his reason to persevere in his trust for time to heal his wound and forget the circumstances that led to the stab, and giving in to the deep wish for revenge that has flared up at the sight of David and his wife. Sharply, he admonishes himself for the unworthy primitivism of his feelings of hatred, but that doesn’t make them less real.

“Of course you want to avenge yourself,” Mummy tells him over tea in the yellow drawing room after he has brought up the subject. “I want to wreak havoc in the life of the horrid bigoted fool for causing you so much grief. Here, have another slice of lemon cake, my boy.”

She picks up her cup and saucer and sips her tea. “I’m your mother, of course, and probably the last person on earth you should discuss this with so I thank you for your faith and trust in bringing up this subject that is so painful to you, to both of us. The fact you’re suffering from these emotions after such a long time – it has been more than a year now, hasn’t it – proves how deeply you must have loved him.”

She hesitates. “Still, my advice is to ignore his existence. In seeking to thwart him in his career, for that would be your best option, you’ll lower yourself to his level. Find yourself another mate and show that servile _peon_ that true worth can afford to flout society’s arbitrary rules and taboos.”

Mycroft’s glance seeks his mother’s eyes but Mummy refuses to look at him. “I know you consider yourself a lone wolf, and you are one in so many ways, but every animal needs another body to snuggle up against at night.” She puts down her cup and saucer and gets of the sofa in one fluid motion. 

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” she continues, walking up to the French windows. She halts in front of them and from the way her right arm moves Mycroft discerns she’s fingering the fine lace of the collar of her blouse. He cranes his head to look past her slight figure and follow her gaze, over the terrace and down to the turf where he discovers Sherlock’s lithe form sprawled in a wicker chair in front of the great copper beech tree. 

“You’re solitary but you’re also a leader and others are dependent on you for their welfare,” Mummy goes on. She pivots on her heels and gestures at the window. “He isn’t,” she says. “He’s a straggler, slinking around the others but never participating, convinced of his own superiority over all the other members of the pack, until winter will descend and he’ll discover it’s a bit harsh outside of the shelter.”

“But Daddy told me he’s doing well in Cambridge. His professors are excited about his work.”

“Yes. It appears I’ve given birth to a proper genius and a future Nobel Prize winner. _And so say all of us. Hurray._ ” Mummy is silent for a moment, struggling to compose herself. Her voice, when she starts speaking again, is lower. “I accepted school was a disaster, what else could I do, but I kept hoping he would find some friends at University. However, there’s no one, he doesn’t participate in the University life at all. He hasn’t joined one of the societies or clubs, never lingers after the lectures, doesn’t visit the pubs. I must be a very bad mother for wishing my son to lounge in a pub and get roaring drunk with his friends but then I guess I am.”

“Well, he’s never been one for keeping company.” 

“Obviously. I wouldn’t mind if I could accept he doesn’t need friends but deep down I’m convinced he craves the companionship of his fellow man. He’s so dreadfully lonely.” She sighs and perches herself on the sofa again. “I shouldn’t bother you with my motherly misgivings, I suppose. Forgive me, Mycroft. Forget I ever mentioned them. All you should do is fall in love again; with the _right_ person this time.”

“Ah,” Mycroft replies, “but that’s where the problem lies. How does one choose the _right_ person? I’m afraid I’m better suited to choosing partners in business than pleasure.” He ponders for a moment, pursing his lips. “Would you like me to talk to Sherlock?”

Mummy shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. He’ll know we discussed him and take offence.” 

“That is a risk of course.”

“But I’d be most grateful to you,” she says.

He puts down his plate and stands to kiss her on her brow. 

Mycroft’s advent makes Sherlock whip up his head. His pearly eyes glare at Mycroft from underneath the dark jumble of curls. “She sent you here to spy on me,” he greets Mycroft. “You can report all is quiet on the Sherlock front. Now go away.” Beneath the pale skin of Sherlock’s throat the tendons are standing out in stark relief. At the end of his feet his long toes dig into the turf, tearing at the innocent blades of grass.

“Is it now?” Mycroft asks. Striving hard for an unperturbed look, he pulls up a chair and arranges himself carefully in it. From beneath his eyelids he studies his brother. Sherlock has dropped the book he was reading, something on neurochemistry judging by the title, and is staring at Mycroft in open enmity. His long-fingered hand has travelled upward and started tugging nervously at the whorls on top of his head. The force employed in pulling at the strands makes Mycroft almost wince in sympathy. His brother’s eyes are ablaze with a general hatred and contempt of humanity, Mycroft among them, and he bites at his lower lip with sharp teeth, drawing blood. A drop wells up from the generous swell of soft tissue, the dark red enhancing the luminous whiteness of the teeth and the sweet pink of Sherlock’s mouth.

The tip of Sherlock’s tongue shoots forth to lick up the small drop of blood. Another drop surges straightaway. Sherlock’s tongue swipes that one away as well. His gaze flashes towards Mycroft who suddenly realises he has been staring at his brother’s mouth, openly. Swivelling his gaze with deliberation Mycroft shifts in his seat, buying himself time to regain his composure. Unsettling Sherlock by watching him this intently won’t exactly further Mycroft’s objective of a heart-to-heart talk with his brother.

“I must say you’re quite aggressive for one who claims not much is happening on his side of the front line,” he puts forward mildly.

“One should always be prepared, shouldn’t one?” retorts Sherlock.

“Indeed. The enemy never sleeps after all. Yet, one should also be picky in choosing one’s battles. Tell me what do you expect to gain by treating your closest kin as enemies?”

At Mycroft’s question Sherlock barks, a harsh bitter laugh, entirely devoid of merriment. 

“Leave me be, Mycroft,” he says, his voice dark and low. “It’s better for the both of us, believe me.”

“If so, then why did you come to me that night after I’d first learned of David’s decision?”

“Is that how you define the rotten game he played on you? No wonder this country is going to the dogs. We all make mistakes and I won’t bother you again in the future.”

Mycroft decides to ignore the first part of Sherlock’s outburst. “You didn’t bother me at all,” he re-joins gently. “On the contrary, your presence brought me great comfort.” He’d like to reach out and touch his brother’s knee, to reassure him that his action was apt, and to convey Mycroft’s gratefulness.

Beside him he can hear Sherlock inhaling deeply, struggling for breath. The next second he lifts himself onto his feet in one fluently graceful motion. The book tumbles from his lap onto the ground but he appears not to notice.

“Glad to have been of help,” he hisses through gritted teeth and sprints away, in the direction of the orchard, the soles of his feet naked and vulnerable against the dark fabric of his jeans as he raises them.

Mycroft twitches in his chair, torn between the wish to jump up and run after Sherlock and his mind’s advice to stay put, reasoning that chasing Sherlock will only serve to anger him further. The elongated line of Sherlock’s body glides away over the grass. Even though he’s moving at greet speed his upper body is completely still, his long legs doing all the work. His apparently effortless elegance reminds Mycroft of nothing so much as the cheetahs that are always chasing after prey in the nature documentaries on television. This one isn’t hunting, however, but rather fleeing to safe its hide. 

Pulling at his lower lip Mycroft sighs. Inwardly he rewinds the tape of the conversation and replays it to discover where he erred in his choice of words, what he said to offend Sherlock so deeply. Behind the doors to the terrace he notices the figure of Mummy turning away and disappearing into the house. She must have seen him fail.

_Oh, damn._

Reaching over Mycroft picks up the book, straightens the pages and deposits it in Sherlock’s empty chair. The vacant seat goggles up at him accusingly, which is frankly ridiculous. Sherlock is the one to insist on keeping himself aloof from Mycroft, his own brother, while Mycroft would like nothing better than a restoration of the proximity they enjoyed as children. Surely Sherlock ought to have forgiven Mycroft now for not smuggling his little brother in the boot of the car when he set off for school. 

The next day Mycroft is woken early by the jubilant song of a blackbird that has perched itself in the wisteria growing beneath his window. For a brief moment he lies disoriented, wondering where he is, before recognising he has another laid-back day stretching before him at his parents’ house. He will have to concern himself with some work later, he blinks in the direction of his desk where the thick stack of files lies awaiting his perusal, but for now he can linger a little longer in the delicious warm nest of his bed, should he wish to do so.

His body reminds him it does indeed want to do so by snuggling deeper amongst the soft sheets and he gives in to its desires, rolls himself on his side and lets his eyes fall closed again.

When he wakes next it is to a pounding headache. The room is stiflingly hot, the rays of the sun falling onto the floor unencumbered by the curtains which he forgot to pull to yesterday evening. He resents the presence of his mouth in his face, as it tastes horribly vile. 

Scrunching his eyes closed again Mycroft groans, then jumps out of bed and pushes the sash window open to let fresh air into the room. In the bathroom he throws cold water into his face and brushes his teeth. Both actions make him feel slightly better. He contemplates taking some aspirin, even stands briefly holding a blister of tablets in his hand, before choosing to attempt to alleviate the pain with some healthy exercise first.

He dons a pair of swimming trunks and a bathrobe, finds a pair of flip-flops in his dresser and hurries out of the house in the direction of the lake. 

On the bank Sherlock is lying on his side, head propped up on one arm, reading his book. His curls are plastered against his head; drops of water cling to his uppermost shoulder and his calves, the sun teasing sparkling glints out of them against the incandescent background of his skin. 

At Mycroft’s arrival he briefly raises his head and immediately looks down again without acknowledging his sibling’s presence.

“Good morning,” Mycroft greets him nevertheless. He spreads his towel next to Sherlock, reasoning it would be ridiculous to act as if Sherlock isn’t there, shrugs out of the robe and enters the water. He launches himself into the shocking coldness of the lake with a great splash, exhilarating in the freshness and the movement, before setting himself a steady pace with great strokes. With each dip of one of his arms into the water he feels the pain draining away out of his aching brain. By the time he’s reached the other end of the lake all that remains of the headache is a vague remembrance he can safely ignore. He turns himself onto his back and starts paddling back at leisure. In this way he courses back and forth across the lake until he loses count and his limbs become affected by the cold despite the relentless glare of the sun on the water and the exercise.

He walks out and dries himself before spreading the towel again and lying down on it. Sherlock turns to face away from Mycroft. The sound of another page of his book being turned rips through the air.

Mycroft settles his gaze on the top of the small grove of oaks that rises on the other side of the lake. In the shimmering heat of the day their greenness merges with the deep blue of the sky until the sky becomes a great wood and the trees turn into air, and Mycroft is sure he’s not looking up into the endless reaches of the sky but down into the azure-green depths of the ever-restless ocean. He risks a glance at Sherlock’s back that rises beside him, hard and forbidding. Yet this is the same back he curled around at night when they were boys. 

A deep surge of love for his brother wells up inside Mycroft.

“Sherlock.” His brother’s back tenses upon hearing Mycroft’s voice but Mycroft decides to push on nevertheless. “Listen to me, please. I don’t know what went wrong yesterday. What induced you to end our conversation in such an abrupt manner. All I wished to tell you then and now, is that it pains me to see you unhappy,” he continues and he means it, wishing he could chase Sherlock’s monsters away by his mere presence, as he used to. Sherlock closes the book. Mycroft’s ears distinctly discern the snap of the pages falling shut.

“Who says I’m unhappy,” demands Sherlock’s muffled voice after some seconds.

Mycroft huffs. 

“Please, Sherlock. We’re your family. We care about you, though you may not see it as an advantage.”

He rolls his head in the direction of Sherlock and catches his sharp intake of breath by the ripple of his shoulder blades underneath the skin. For a moment he’s afraid Sherlock will leap up and take off again. Relief floods him when Sherlock falls onto his back instead, still refusing to look at Mycroft. His hands clutch at his towel convulsively. Mycroft turns his head again to allow him some privacy. In Mycroft’s ears the sound of Sherlock’s hands tearing at the terrycloth drowns the sound of his own heartbeat.

“You’ve simply got no idea… you should never even know…” Sherlock sounds desperate, choking on the words. Mycroft’s instinct, honed by hours of diplomatic talks, urges him to remain silent.

The clutch of Sherlock’s fingers circling his wrist almost makes Mycroft bolt upright. Sherlock’s hand is dreadfully cold against Mycroft’s sun-warmed skin and he fights the primal reaction of his body, which is to wrench itself free from the vicelike grip. His arm is lifted and guided, away from his side, and over into the territory of Sherlock’s towel and the body resting there. For a moment their arms hang suspended in the air above the area of Sherlock’s concave belly. The next second their hands plunge down and Sherlock’s fingers force Mycroft’s hand to palm the length of his sibling’s hot arousal beneath the smooth material of his swimming shorts.

Mycroft almost sprains a muscle in his neck as he whips his head to look at Sherlock. His brother’s breathing is fast and irregular, each exhale an exclamation of pain, each inhale a loud sob drawn into straining lungs. 

Beneath his hand Mycroft feels Sherlock’s erection pressing against the pads of his fingertips, the heel of his palm. He concentrates on keeping his hand lax and supple beneath Sherlock’s, exuding neither judgment nor encouragement. In his mind his first priority is to stay upright under the avalanche of emotions Sherlock’s action has set tumbling over him. He won’t let them drown him. To his great relief he discovers the first outburst of surprise has already receded to the background, leaving him space to start sorting through his emotions. He needs to _think_ first and foremost – that’s his occupation after all, to think and organise where most people would just shout and panic – think about Sherlock, about them, and think about the sudden hot surge of lust the feel of Sherlock’s stiffened penis beneath his hand has sent rippling along his spine.

“Happy now?” Sherlock’s embittered voice wrings itself from his throat and he jerks his hand away, clearly expecting Mycroft to swiftly remove his hand from the offending object it was forced to embrace, scrabble for his towel and robe and make a run for his safety and sanity as fast as his legs will allow him. 

This is exactly what a part of Mycroft’s mind, the sensible and conventional part he supposes, urges him to do. Another part of his brain insists his hand remains exactly where it is and he chooses to listen to this voice. Reason retaliates immediately by quoting his mother’s words at him.

 _“Find yourself another mate and show that servile_ peon _that true worth can afford to flout society’s arbitrary rules and taboos.” Interesting take on her words, Mycroft._

Mycroft slides his gaze towards his shoulder, down past his stretched arm and on to his hand that’s still lying prone on the ridge in Sherlock’s swim shorts. The fact that Sherlock’s state of physical arousal hasn’t abated, despite the obvious distress he’s enduring, clutches fiercely at a spot deep down in Mycroft’s gut. What he would like to do most of all is to take Sherlock in his arms and comfort him. 

“Since when?” he asks in the most neutral tone he can muster.

“Oh.” With tightly scrunched eyes Sherlock starts rolling his head on his towel, his curls shifting and bouncing like a nest of soft down where his pained face has sought shelter. Another gust of breath rattles his windpipe and then suddenly – unstoppably – a great flood of words rushes out of his mouth. “I don’t know. What does it matter? The first time I fully realised was when I spotted you kissing in the library, you and him, during his first visit. I… I… it hurt me, seeing the two of you, together. I was jealous. Not because you were kissing him, though that was bad enough, I suppose. No, it was him kissing you. The fact he was able to do so. And you allowed him. I hated you for allowing him. I heard you creeping to his room at night. The floorboards outside my room creak and you weren’t careful enough. Why should you be? Your wish to be with him was only natural, wasn’t it? Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t have objected. I watched through the keyhole, I saw him sucking you off and then you let him fuck you. The sight made my stomach turn for it should have been me there in the bed with you. Your face when… when you came… I wanted to do that to you. Christ, I hated him. I hate you! I hate myself, most of all.”

It must have been years since Mycroft has heard Sherlock speak so many sentences in one go. Now Sherlock grasps Mycroft’s hand and hefts it up, transporting it back to Mycroft’s side and depositing it there.

“You don’t have to try to be kind and pretend it’s all right,” he says. “I know this revolts you. Lusting after my own brother, well, I must be a proper little freak. I _am_ a freak. School was nothing but hell, the whole dorm happily rutting away. They all laughed at me, nicknamed me ‘the virgin’ because I refused to participate in the wanking parties. The thought of anyone but you touching me is hateful. All I want is you. I can’t help myself. I know this… this love I feel for you – for it is love – is what we’ve been taught to abhor. Imagine Mummy ever knowing, or Nanny? It would be the end of her, might as well stab her in the back with a good clean knife.”

The door of the sluice gate has been lifted and years of pent-up unhappiness come crashing down in a great gulf. During his confession Sherlock has struggled up into a sitting position, his back turned to Mycroft, forearms crossed on his raised knees and his head hanging down. 

“Go away,” he begs, “just leave me alone.”

“No,” Mycroft answers immediately. “No, I won’t.” 

He is in shock, he supposes, experiencing the same all-out attack on his emotions David’s betrayal evoked a year ago. The instant deep hate is lacking though, replaced by a profound sympathy. The great soaring bird of his mind has encountered an unexpectedly strong current, encumbering its effortless glide. It flaps its wings furiously, flying in circles in search of a path around the invisible force opposing him. The idea of Sherlock living with his secret all these years feels like a sharp blow to his stomach. A hateful memory flashes before Mycroft’s eyes: the evening Mycroft walked into the restaurant where he and David were to have dinner and caught his lover flirting heavily with the waiter. That whole evening the green jaundice had been gobbling away at his heart, while David kept cajoling him and berating him for being unjust and jealous for no good cause. 

It doesn’t take a great leap of his imagination to understand what Sherlock must have been living through. Each brush of Mycroft’s hand past David’s – though Mycroft always insisted on them being discreet in front of his family – must have been a piercing stab delivered straight to Sherlock’s heart. Now Mycroft sees why his brother has always disliked David, and yet the end of the affair couldn’t bring him happiness for what could Sherlock expect but to see David replaced with another. For years his brother has been wallowing in a thick slime composed of self-hatred and self-pity and abject misery, the viscosity of the vile stuff so high he was unable to raise himself and start cleansing his limbs of the substance. 

Tentatively Mycroft reaches out to touch the stark, naked back that looks so forlorn, so helpless. Then he decides just a soothing pat of his hand won’t be enough, will only add to Sherlock’s wretchedness as he will interpret it as Mycroft’s insincere attempt to show he doesn’t recoil from his sibling after hearing his confession. He struggles onto his knees instead and sits back on his haunches for the briefest of moments. 

The next second his arms embrace Sherlock and he presses the planes of his chest against his brother’s upper back. The sharp points of Sherlock’s vertebrae prod his breastbone unpleasantly. In his arms Sherlock freezes, his reaction that of a small skittish animal that has been pounded upon by a hunter. Mycroft holds on nevertheless, lowering his lips to the nape of Sherlock’s neck and placing them beneath the fringe of curls. 

“Don’t hate yourself, please,” he says, willing his voice to sound steady and even. “It’s unworthy of you. There’s no reason. You’re my brother, you will always be.”

“You hit the nail on the head, Mycroft, as ever,” comes Sherlock’s voice, aiming for sarcasm. “For, for me, that’s exactly where the problem lies. If only you weren’t my brother, then I would have had a chance.”

Against the force of Mycroft’s grip on him he manages to turn, his face only inches away from Mycroft’s. “Nobody would have berated me if I had tried to seduce you,” he says. 

***

_The way Sherlock’s head rolls on the cushion, his whole body clamping down on Mycroft._

***

Later, hours later, Mycroft sits in his room where he fled, his thoughts revolving over and over again around the question who was the first to bridge that small gap of space separating their mouths. Did Sherlock’s lips burst upwards, like the innocent pink flame that starts a great bonfire or did Mycroft’s dip down to add the necessary fuel by gushing over them? Mycroft tells himself he honestly wouldn’t know. Deep down however he is certain he was the one to initiate their kiss. After his desperate move of forcing Mycroft to _feel_ what he felt Sherlock was nothing but reticent. It was Mycroft who let his head sink, irrevocably, drawn like a bee to the sweet precious flower of his brother’s mouth that had hovered just beneath his, ready to be picked, the generous folds of his lips easily giving way, opening up to let him in, when Mycroft finally pressed his mouth on Sherlock’s.

Mycroft groans and buries his head in his hands. He is shaking all over; he can’t stop the ripples travelling down his spine and his limbs at the visions that keep flooding his brain. Sherlock’s lust-blown eyes, dark and hooded beneath heavy eyelids, a flash of teeth behind panting lips, the reverent brush of his fingers from Mycroft’s cheekbone down past his jaw and the line of his throat and lower still. Mycroft’s hand curled around Sherlock’s waist, his skin with the light freckles almost dark against the pale glow that was Sherlock. 

His fingertips tingle with the memory of his brother’s soft smooth skin. His fingers were drawn inevitably to the region covered by Sherlock’s swimming shorts and he briefly grappled with them before Sherlock pushed up his hips, just enough for Mycroft to shove the infuriating clothing down his brother’s thighs. Then his fingers were on Sherlock, the heavy fullness of him pulsating and quivering against the sensitive skin of Mycroft’s palm. Sherlock’s eyes shot open wide, his back arched and Mycroft’s name was wrung from his throat in time to the stream of ejaculate pumping itself out between Mycroft’s fingers, soiling the pristine smoothness of Sherlock’s belly and coating Mycroft’s hand. 

Mycroft watched the contortions of Sherlock’s face while he held on to him until his brother’s eyelids fluttered closed and a great sigh of satisfaction floated past his half-opened lips. Then he started pulling at his own swimming trunks, fighting against the shaking that kept impeding his movements, his straining erection struggling against the material until it finally broke free and he could curl his hand around himself. He started running his hand up and down his throbbing penis in quick strokes, his fingers slick with the lubricant of Sherlock’s sperm, giving in to the overwhelming need to reach completion while the image of Sherlock’s lush lips slackened in his orgasm was still fresh in his mind. Next to him Sherlock moved and Mycroft brought up his other hand to quiet him. 

“No, let me,” Sherlock murmured and before Mycroft realised his brother’s intention, he was enveloped by warm hot wetness. Sherlock’s tongue drew against the slit, his soft wide lips pulling at the frenulum. Mycroft let go of himself, his hands seeking support in Sherlock’s curls instead while he rode his brother’s mouth, looking down briefly and then scrunching his eyes shut against the image of his member dragging past the plush shelf of Sherlock’s lower lip. The hot thread of his impending release was wound tighter at the bottom of his spine, drawing his balls against his body, ready to let go. He growled Sherlock’s name in a warning, tugged feebly at the strands of hair he was holding onto. Sherlock’s response was to dig his fingers into Mycroft’s hip and take him in deeper. Mycroft felt his sperm rise, his flesh pulsating against the gentle softness of Sherlock’s palate while his hips bucked in the irresistible rhythm of primeval release. Wave after blinding wave of white-hot oblivion kept surging up and travelling outwards, drawing the muscles in his body taut, until he had nothing left to spend.

Sherlock’s kiss, ghosting over Mycroft’s lips after he found his breath again, was an act of worship. He pushed his tongue between Mycroft’s teeth and Mycroft tasted himself, slightly bitter, over the salty sweetness that was the inside of Sherlock’s mouth. Mycroft brought up his hand, coated in the rapidly drying flakes of Sherlock’s seed. He sucked at his forefinger and middle finger, savouring the salty-sweaty tang, and then pushed them into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock’s eyes locked on Mycroft’s while he took in his fingers and licked them clean. The rasping of his tongue against Mycroft’s finger pads sent fresh tremors quivering down Mycroft’s spine.

The thought of the slide of that tongue along his hand makes Mycroft shake all over again. 

Downstairs the supper gong is struck, its bellows reverberating down the house. The idea of food isn’t very appealing but Mycroft reasons he’d best make an appearance so as not to alarm his parents. 

In the family dining room he finds them already seated at the table. Both look sun-drenched and agreeably drowsy after a day spent at a flower show. As Mycroft is arranging his napkin on his lap Sherlock enters, mumbles a greeting in their general direction and falls down on his chair opposite Mycroft. 

From behind his lashes, Mycroft glances at his brother while their mother’s chatter on an exciting new breed of irises she’s spotted, flows around them both. Sherlock’s gaze remains fixed on his plate where he’s mainly concerning himself with pushing around his food. This is pretty much his usual conduct during any meal so his behaviour can’t strike Mummy and Daddy as being out of the ordinary. Mycroft has a harder task to perform. Cook’s excellent cooking doesn’t interest him, indeed the idea of eating sickens him, and yet he has to bring his fork up to his mouth and shovel the food inside in order not to alarm his parents.

What he _does_ want, no, what he _needs_ is to pull Sherlock close and kiss him, then slowly, reverently, undress him, and take him into his mouth. Mycroft’s jaw grinds away at his roast and he swallows hard.

“Will you be going back to London this evening, Mycroft?” Daddy asks. “You might as well stay and drive up early tomorrow. The road will be excessively hot and unpleasant now.”

“Yes,” Mycroft answers. “I’d thought of staying tonight, if you will have me.” He hesitates for a moment and then boldly drives on. “Maybe you’d like to come with me, Sherlock? Everything is pretty well under control right now at the office and you could visit some museums on your own while I’m at work. Last year you did promise to come and visit me so you still owe me.”

Beneath the table he pinches his thigh, hard, willing Sherlock to say yes. With some careful arranging he’ll manage to take two days off from work. Two days to spend together with Sherlock in the privacy of his flat, away from possibly prying eyes. He’s been unforgivably careless this morning. That won’t happen again, ever.

Slowly, Sherlock drags up his head. “Fine,” he says, “if you insist.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy exults, “what a splendid idea! You’ll have such fun, and you deserve so after having studied so hard. Promise me to entertain him, Mycroft.”

“Of course,” Mycroft shushes her. “I promise.”

For a moment, he feels irrepressibly vile, a pervert deceiving his innocent mother. Beneath his collar a hot flush of shame starts creeping up his neck. His gaze flashes towards Sherlock, hoping to meet his eyes, but Sherlock is better at this game than Mycroft and is back to the close observation of the winding paths he’s carved out of the hilly landscape of Sunday roast and vegetables on his plate.

_Mycroft, I love you, but you know as well as I what the reaction of the world would be should our affair ever become widely known. Surely, you, with your amazing intelligence and your ambition, must see how this knowledge would hinder you._

The words of David’s hateful letter sound in Mycroft’s ears and he could almost laugh out loud for he can well imagine what the world’s reaction would be should this affair he and Sherlock are about to embark on, ever become known.

***

_He’ll let the world deal with that little problem. Right now he aims to keep the promise he made his father all those years ago._

_Mycroft will_ love _his little brother._ Always.


End file.
